


Confidentiality Agreement

by jettiebettie



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Information Broker AU, hinted relationship between Ivy and Harley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jettiebettie/pseuds/jettiebettie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Tim is an information broker and finds himself having to sort out the personal affairs of villains. Mostly against his will, but partially out of guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confidentiality Agreement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SweetFanfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/gifts).



Mr. Dent was really beginning to piss Tim off. Informants ready and willing to give him what he wanted for the right amount of money may have been a dime a dozen, but they were a pain to replace. He usually didn’t care to interact with anyone of ill repute face to face, but sometimes there was only so much you could gain via computer. Sometimes you needed to talk to people.

People sucked.

People like Mr. Dent who had realized that someone within his ranks was leaking information. When that came to his attention, people started dying. Mr. Dent’s paranoia had driven him to question his closest henchmen, and while it certainly kept him busy and blind to other dangers to his operation, it also didn’t help Tim’s conscience. He would have to contact Mr. Wayne. Perhaps throwing Mr. Dent in Arkham would give him time to cool down.

Tim rolls the thought around in his head a bit. Dealing with Mr. Wayne had become significantly more unpleasant since the appearance of the new Robin. Tim had spent several years building a solid reputation for himself as a reliable purveyor of information. But this little brat questioned everything he said, every little bit of intell was looked upon as unworthy of his oh-so precious time. Mr. Grayson had realized the problem early on; he now only contacted Tim when he didn’t have the little wretch in tow.

But people were still dying, and Tim would have to give Mr. Wayne a heads-up.

Tim was just about to open a connection to the Batcomputer when a call came through on his screen. Tim allowed himself a brief moment of panic (had Mr. Wayne already seen the issue and traced it to his dealings?) but activated the voice changer on his headset and answered when he realized it was not from a source he recognized. The computer was already tracing the call.

“You’ve reached Gotham City Hall, how may I direct your-”

“Don’t play games with me, boy.”

“Ah. Good evening, Miss Isley. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Tim asked while simultaneously sending an encrypted e-mail to Mr. Wayne. There was a weighted pause on the other end of the line. Tim tapped his desk in irritation and mentally went through the list of far more important things he could be doing than-

“I need to know where Harley is,” came the reply, forced between clenched teeth (Tim could hear it; he could practically see the frustration on the villain’s face).

“I wasn’t aware Miss Quinzel was missing, Miss Isley,” he confessed. An unamused huff filled his ears.

“Then what good are you?”

Tim frowned and sat up straight. “I’m afraid your incredibly constructive criticism is a moot point, Miss Isley. I do not work for you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Tim reached a hand over the keyboard to end the call.

“Wait!” she shouted. Tim winced and pulled the headset away from his ear. “Just… just wait.”

“Miss Isley,” he sighed, “I’m not who you need to talk to to file a missing persons report.”

“Stop being ridiculous,” she practically snarled. “I need to find her and no one-” She seemed to choke mid-sentence. “And no one will help me.” They both fell silent for a few moments, and Tim knew there was no way he could turn Miss Isley away and not have trouble sleeping afterward.

He wanted to punch himself.

“Tell me what happened.”

-

The word restraint never came to mind when one contemplated The Joker, unless it was in terms of straightjackets or handcuffs. It would seem that while Tim was busy with the Dent Debacle, Joker decided all the banks in Gotham needed to be level with, say, an _ant_ and proceeded to procure several shipments of high explosives. None of this surprised Tim; he had record of it in his current/relevant information file, the very one Mr. Wayne (and the demon) bought off of him earlier that week. Plot foiled. Explosives confiscated. The Joker’s big, shiny plans- ruined.

So natually, someone had to pay.

The last place with official documentation of having Harleen Quinzel in custody was Gotham General. From there she was to be transported to Arkham’s infirmary. It would seem, however, that Miss Quinzel had found a way to render her nurse and guard unconscious and slipped out the back.

Tim scrubbed a hand over his face. The woman had a broken leg and a shattered collar bone, among other injuries. Tim couldn’t help but feel the guard deserved the horrendous headache he woke up with. On the other hand, he also can’t help but feel that the man was lucky to even be alive. No one ever took Miss Quinzel seriously until she was introducing their head to a bat.

There were only a few places she could go, though, of that Tim was sure.

He looked down at his notes and couldn’t help but think that his involvement could have been entirely avoided. Sighing, he made the call.

“To whom am I speaking?” came the low purr over the line.

“It’s me,” Tim said, pulling up a leg and resting his chin on a knee.

“Hello, Kitten.” Miss Kyle’s voice changed from seductive to something vaguely maternal. “I hear you’ve been having trouble with big bad Harv. Anything I can help you with?” Tim could practically hear her sharpening her claws.

“That situation is already being dealt with, I’m afraid. This is about your guest.”

“Ah. You mean the whiny crying thing that’s taken over my couch,” Miss Kyle asked, tone devoid of humor. “What about her?”

“I was only needing confirmation on her location, Miss Kyle. Thank you,” Tim said.

“And who, exactly, is asking?” Her tone was now serious and carried a warning.

“Miss Isley expressed concern for her well-being and asked that I locate her. Nothing more, I assure you,” Tim quickly clarified. He heard Miss Kyle sigh.

“She asked me not to call Pam. Even asked me not to tell her she was here.”

“Do you know why that might be?”

“Well,” Miss Kyle began (Tim could hear her shift around, as if moving to a different room), “the last time this happened, Harley went straight to Pam. Pam welcomed her with open arms, you know, and everything was sleepovers and girl bonding, if you know what I mean-”

“I know what you mean. Please stop.”

“-and then suddenly Joker’s calling out Harley’s name with chocolates and flowers that squirt water and she falls for him all over again and Pam is left with nothing but a thanks and good-bye.”

Tim winced.

“Rough.”

“Exactly! So then, Pam tells Harley to never come crawling back to her and now Harley, instead, comes crawling to me.”

“You realize you’ve just gossiped all of this to me for free, yes?”

“Kitten, I don’t know if you’ve realized, but my gal-pals are the _cause_ of my problems at the moment.”

“Point.”

-

Miss Kyle was all too happy to let him divulge his discovery to Miss Isley. She had only promised that she herself wouldn’t, you see, so she felt fairly confident that this would put the situation on the path of resolution.

Miss Kyle was wrong.

It was merely two days later that Tim found himself interrupted in the middle of hacking into one of Lex Luther’s commercial labs. He attempted to ignore it, but the incoming call icon in the corner of his screen continued to pulse at which point he backed out of the hack with a frustrated sigh, turned on his voice changer, and answered.

“Thank you for calling Gotham City Hall-”

“I HATE YOU!”

Tim jerked and ripped his headset off in a flailing motion. His ear was ringing but he could still hear the voice shouting abuses at him over the line. When the sharp pain in his ear finally ebbed, he slowly brought the mic to his mouth.

“Miss Quinzel, please! Can we take this to a lower decibel?”

“Don’t sass me, kid!” she shouted. “You told Pam! How could you?!”

Tim rubbed at the mounting pressure right above his eye. “She paid for the information, Miss Quinzel. What was I supposed to do?”

“Tell her to jump off a bridge, that’s what!” she shouted, sounding near tears. Tim took a steadying breath.

“That’s not exactly how I work.”

“You d-don’t work with people like us at all, you ch-cheater! Why help her m-make m-my life worse, huh?” She was in tears now. Tim frowned.

“What? How do you mean?”

“Sh-she keeps calling Selina’s!”

“I assumed as much. She said she wanted to check up on you. Are you telling me continued to call after you told her you were safe?” Tim asked, confused and not at all impressed with Miss Isley’s behavior. He’s really getting tired of being the reason people are getting hurt.

“Uh- well, I didn’t exactly- I mean I-” Miss Quinzel stuttered out.

“… You did at least _answer_ when she first called, didn’t you? You did let her know that you were alright, yes?” Tim asked, already dreading the answer.

“Well… n-not exactly,” she said “B-but! She told me never to call her again! She told me n-not- She told me that I c-couldn’t-” And more bawling filled Tim’s headset. Fantastic.

“Miss Quinzel, call Miss Isley. I refuse to continue this conversation until you have.” Tim paused. “Or ever. Don’t call me again. You’re a grown woman. Call her and sort this out yourself.”

And before she could reply, Tim hung up and buried his head in his hands. Christ.

-

“You’ve reached Gotham Ci-”

“What did you do to Harley, you little brat?”

Why did Tim even bother, honestly?

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he tried. Miss Isley, however, was having none of his shit.

“If I ever find you, you will know nothing but _agony_.”

Tim flailed for all the good it did to emphasis his point. “ I didn’t _do_ anything!”

“Harley called me-”

“Finally!”

“-and told me how you treated her the other day.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You treated her like a child,” Miss Isley explained, “and hurt her _feelings_.”

Tim glared at the phone icon on his screen. “Because that’s a mature thing to say,” he said sardonically.

“And then,” Miss Isley continued, ignorning him, “she blamed _me_ for it because I had you look for her in the first place and now she won’t answer my calls again!”

Tim let his head fall to his desk. “You asked me to find her. I found her. Transaction complete. Everything from this point on is your problem, not mine.”

“Apologize to her.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“She won’t return my calls. If she doesn’t return my calls, I have to resort to you. Do you see a _pattern_ , dear boy?”

Now Tim wanted to cry.

-

“I meant you no disrespect, Miss Quinzel, truly, it was just… a very bad day,” Tim gritted out.

“Yeah, well, people really need to stop taking their bad days out on me!”

 _Then we wouldn’t be here_ , Tim wanted to say. He didn’t.

-

“You changed your number,” Mr. Wayne commented in his Justice Voice ™.

Tim massaged his temples.

“I’m not a marriage counselor.” Tim replied tightly. There was a questioning silence over the line, expecting an explanation. He didn’t give one.

**Author's Note:**

> Referring to people in the manner Tim does makes him feel professional. I felt like I should explain that. He has never, however, called Batman Mr. Wayne to anyone other than the man himself and inside his own head. As far as Tim's concerned, that's priceless information that can't be bought with mere money.


End file.
